


Bright Still

by gypsydancergirl (hauntedlittledoll)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Shakespeare is My Second Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-04-22
Updated: 2011-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:52:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedlittledoll/pseuds/gypsydancergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate Universe in which Castiel has fallen, Bobby is dead, Dean is gone, and Sam has voices in his head.  The end of the world never came.  Now Sam and Castiel are all that's left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from Shakespeare's "Macbeth."
> 
> Deviates from Supernatural canon post 5.17 - "99 Problems."

Sam could have traveled down the dark road again after Dean’s final death, but he was too busy caring for Castiel. The angel had fallen for Dean, and now Dean wasn’t even here to care for the helpless child. That was left to Sam . . . like the Impala, and the Colt, and the Bradens, and Bobby’s house . . . just one miniature fallen angel that had ended up the sum and total of Samuel Winchester’s world.

Dean only looked back at them once on his way to kill Lucifer.

And even that was just long enough to make sure that Sam had picked up the naked and squalling newborn that the devil abandoned. Just long enough to see Castiel quiet and curl into Sam’s awkward hold. Then Dean kept going, leaving the two of them completely dependent on each other for their very lives.

Sam suspected it was deliberate on Dean’s part to saddle his younger brother with a helpless baby whose very life depended on Sam’s care. _(In another way, Sam’s life depended on Castiel because if it wasn’t for that tiny trusting figure, Sam would have put a bullet in his head when the world didn’t end.)_

Bobby had left Sam the business along with the house, but Sam had never been good with cars the way Dean had been. So Bobby had left him money and a legit story. Somewhere along the way, the older hunter had managed to clear the Winchester’s records, and they’d known for almost eight months about Castiel. _(Lucifer had ripped the baby from his mother’s womb at 32 weeks and left the woman to die on the side of the road. Castiel was **premature** for the sake of a timetable. The tiny child could have been the devil’s greatest pawn. Sam didn’t know why Lucifer gave the former angel up.)_ All the forged paperwork for Castiel Robert Winchester was tucked into the envelope of important papers that Bobby left in his desk before Death had arrived.

Sam Winchester was a legal entity for the first time in five years with a clean slate, and he was poorer than dirt. He couldn’t get a job . . . couldn’t depend on anyone to truly keep Castiel safe while he worked. He had no friends to ask, and no daycare would be persuaded of the importance of salt lines. _(He couldn’t stand being parted for Castiel that long even if Ellen or Bobby came back from the dead expressly for babysitting. Virtually every second of every day the baby was curled against Sam’s chest, and every night he was cradled there as they both shared the too small cot in the panic room.)_

He couldn’t run new scams without ruining his legit standing and attracting attention. He couldn’t hustle pool with a baby. He had no savings, and Bobby’s went fast on baby formula and perishables delivered from the store in town. He was dependent on Bobby’s stockpiled store of Armageddon rations, the well, and the generator since he couldn’t even pay any of the utility bills.

By the time Castiel was a year old _(Millennia plus one, the Voice liked to remind him.)_ , Bobby’s store was nearly empty, the yard was a rusty, unchanging heap, and neither of them had taken a step off the property since Sam almost crashed the Impala through the gate a year ago. They still slept in the panic room. When Sam wasn’t busy caring for Castiel, he was raising every ward he could find in Bobby’s library to make the property impenetrable.

Castiel toddled a little on the rare instances Sam put him down long enough to do so, but seemed mostly content with Sam’s habit of constantly carrying him. He hadn’t spoken yet, and he was rather small for his age. Sometimes, Sam worried between fits of paranoid frenzy.

* * *

The little boy was sleeping against Sam’s chest when Sam aimed Bobby’s shotgun at Rufus’ head. _(They had been catnapping on the porch in the late summer sun and Sam had found freeze pops in the bottom of the freezer. Both their lips were purple, and the radio was playing classical music when the rumble of the dying truck passed through the gate.)_ Sam covered the dark head with one large hand, and held the gun steady.

Rufus paused just past the car door, and held it in both hands.

“Wake the kid, and I’ll ventilate you, Rufus,” Sam hissed.

Rufus stared at him levelly and slammed the door shut. Sam swore, but Castiel didn’t stir. When the kid slept, he was dead to the world. Sam stood up cautiously regardless, and braced the gun against the porch rail, but keeping it steady on the older hunter.

“Winchester.”

“Rufus,” Sam returned. “Get back in your truck and go.”

“Bobby said I could always come back here,” Rufus cocked an eyebrow.

“Bobby’s dead. Just leave, man.”

“I can’t do that, boy. I’m not back in town two days and I’m hearing rumors flying about Bobby’s place. I haul ass, and find the place looking like this . . . and you . . . boy, have you even looked in a mirror?”

_(He had smashed them all in a fit of rage back in December when he thought he saw John Winchester in one. He only stopped when he heard Castiel crying in the panic room. He’d spent Christmas stitching up his hand with Castiel in the baby sling as Christmas Carols played over the radio.)_

“Three months past needing a shave and a haircut I’d imagine,” Sam laughed bitterly.

“Bobby and your brother died for you, boy. You gonna run all that into the ground?”

“My choice,” Sam closed his eyes and waved Rufus off with the gun. “Get off my property.”

“You ain’t got much left, boy. You never had much money to begin with, and what Bobby’s set aside must be running low. You ain’t ordered formula from the grocery store in over a month, and the Sheriff is really worried about that kid you found or stole from somewhere. She should be sending social services up here, but she won’t because of what you did for her awhile back.”

Sam stared at the older hunter blankly.

Rufus cleared his throat awkwardly and took a step closer to the porch. “I gotta know, boy. Where’d he come from? Does he have folks looking for him, or did you not even look?”

Sam slowly realized that Rufus didn’t know the whole story about the end of the world that wasn’t. That Rufus didn’t know about Castiel.

Sam tightened his grip on Castiel until even the baby couldn’t ignore it anymore and whined softly into Sam’s chest. “I didn’t find him and I didn’t steal him, Rufus. He’s . . .”

_(He was supposed to be Dean’s. As soon as they found out Castiel had fallen, they were searching for miraculous pregnancies while Bobby forged legal papers. “Everything he did, he did for us, and he’s not going to be anything but a Winchester now.” So he was supposed to be Dean’s. They were going to avert the apocalypse and retire and do one miserable thing right for once. Then Lucifer came to them and Dean left to kill him. Dean was supposed to be the child-rearing expert, but it’s Sam who has known every moment of Castiel’s brief human existence.)_

“He’s mine,” he finished firmly.

“Fool boy, no one in your family has ever looked like that,” Rufus indicated Castiel with a jerk of his head. “If you won’t return him to where he belongs, I mean to stay and keep an eye on things. Make sure you’re safe enough around him.”

“Only one who is.”

“You mean to tell me Bobby’s alcohol stash is untouched?”

“I could shoot you, but I don’t have to.” Sam set Castiel on the porch, and shouldered the shotgun. “I’m a tax-payin’ citizen now, Rufus. I could call and have the Sheriff come up to run you off for me. It’d be easier for you to take off now.”

“Yeah, and what taxes are you payin’ next year without an income, Winchester? How are you gonna put food in your mouths when Bobby’s stores run out? I need a place to stay between hunts, and I can run the Salvage for you. Teach you how to do it yourself if you’re interested.”

“And what do you get out of it?”

“A paycheck and the satisfaction of knowing that kid won’t starve with you. Think about it, Winchester. You’ll have a second hunter on the property for emergencies, and money coming in. I know how badly you need it, boy. Bobby was prepared, but it was supposed to be the end.”

Sam glanced from the hunter to Castiel and back up again. Slowly, he lowered the shotgun. “You touch him, and I’ll make you wish I’d killed you.”

“Fair enough. I figure I can crash in the old shed with Bo.”

Sam shook his head. “The dog goes. Too dangerous with the baby.”

“Bo wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Not with him. Dog’s a deal-breaker.”

For a second, Sam thought that he’d won and the older hunter would take off, but Rufus grit his teeth. Turning back to the truck, he called the dog out of the back. It circled his knees, and Rufus crouched to give it a rubdown. “Go on, boy.”

The dog lay down at his feet. Sam recognized that level of devotion. That was the kind of devotion that came from having nothing left, and the grip Rufus had on its collar was proof of mutual feelings. _(He’d fall apart without Castiel needing him. He had nothing else left of Dean, and while Castiel had been Dean’s angel first, the baby was Sam’s now.)_ Sam grimaced. “Keep the thing chained up. He gets loose and he’s gone. I won’t risk it.”

“Alright, Sam,” Rufus nodded slowly. “Kid got a name?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed and he hefted Castiel again. “That’s none of your business.”

* * *

Rufus moved into the shed, and his dog was chained up outside. Cars started coming and going on the property once more, and Sam hid with Castiel in the house during the day. Sunny afternoons on the porch were forgotten. People were dangerous. Rufus was a big enough threat on his own.

Sam almost slit the other man’s throat the first time Rufus brought in the renewed grocery orders from town. Sam had been cooking with Castiel clinging to his leg, and suddenly there was **someone. Else. There.**

_(Even after he recognized the older man, he considered killing him. There was **someone else** inside the house with him and Castiel.)_

Castiel had fallen on his butt when Sam ripped free of the toddler’s hold in order to react to the threat. Sam shoved Rufus away to scoop up the former angel. Something smoked on the stove, but Sam didn’t take his eyes off the other hunter. His heart was still beating furiously under Castiel’s cheek.

Rufus looked away first, and moved to take care of the burnt stew. Sam sank into the nearest chair, setting the steak knife on the table in order to hold Castiel tighter. He dropped his chin to rest on top of the kid’s dark head. Castiel clutched at his t-shirt with both hands, and Sam pet him until the baby calmed.

Rufus watched them carefully as he moved to put away groceries. Sam tried to ignore him.

“He talk any?”

“No,” Sam rasped. There was silence.

“You ever try talking to him?”

Sam laughed harshly. “Some days that’s all I ever do.”

* * *

_(“You know, Cas, I killed a woman . . . a nurse who looked after little babies like you. I drank her blood, and then dumped the body, and ran off to find Lillith. I knew it was wrong. I think I knew that Dean was right. I know that I knew better. But I did it anyway.” Sam shifted on the cot. Until a few months ago, Sam hadn’t slept on his back since Jessica, but Castiel would fall asleep faster curled against Sam’s chest._

_“I think you should have killed me before it ever got to that point. Just smote me where I stood the first time I tried to convince you all that I knew better. I always know better,” Sam scoffed bitterly, stroking Castiel’s back rhythmically. The baby sighed softly, his breath ruffling the collar of Sam’s shirt._

_“I always know **nothing** and get people killed. You shouldn’t have listened to Dean. You should have just killed me, and then this wouldn’t have happened to you. It’s my fault you’re like this, Cas. And it was Dean’s too, I guess. He was a dick, but he didn’t mean it. You were his best friend. His only friend. As soon as Gabriel told us that you had fallen, all the apocalypse stuff took second place to finding you.” Castiel snuffled softly. Sam brushed his lips against the dark head automatically._

_“Sorry, Cas,” Sam whispered. They lay there in quiet contentment for a long moment before the oldest living Winchester wrinkled his nose. “Oh, come on, man. You didn’t . . .” Sam sighed. “Of course you did. It’s the precursor of anti-bedtime arguments.” He shifted Castiel and carried the baby over to the makeshift changing table. “Don’t get excited,” he warned. “As soon as you’re changed, we’re going to sleep. You like sleeping, remember? When it’s your own idea, you power nap like a pro. Four hours, man. That’s all I’m asking for.”_

_Castiel waved both hands above his face as if reaching for something. Sam rolled his eyes and proceeded to change the diaper and replace the sleeper. Cloth diapers weren’t leak-proof. He decided to just strip his own shirt off, and toss an extra blanket on instead of making a trip upstairs._

_“Bed,” Sam reminded, as he crawled in and resettled Castiel. “Non-negotiable.” He closed his eyes and rubbed the baby’s back. “Say your prayers, little one” he rasped. He no longer attempted actual singing, but settled for just mouthing the lyrics. “Don’t forget my son to include everyone.” He wasn’t Dean; Dean would actually remember a proper lullaby._

_Castiel didn’t seem to care.)_

* * *

Sam knew Rufus was watching them, and that the man had been keeping a close eye ever since he pulled into the scrapyard. But the intensity increased after the incident with the steak knife. Rufus watched at night when Sam warily worked on cars under his instruction with Castiel sleeping against his chest in the baby sling that the child was fast outgrowing. Rufus watched them in the yard before breakfast as they lay in the wet grass and watched the sunrise. Rufus watched Sam put away groceries with Castiel clinging to his leg. Rufus watched, and he waited, but Sam didn’t know what the hunter was waiting for.

_(The voice had a lot to say about what Rufus was waiting for. He’s waiting for Sam to freak out. He’s waiting to put a bullet in Sam’s forehead like Dean did the yellow-eyed demon, and then he’s going to take Castiel.)_

The hunter probably thought he’d waited long enough the day he came crashing into the house like hellhounds were on his tail, not even trying to hide his entrance. He burst into Bobby’s study and Castiel’s tentative block  
tower collapsed under the force Rufus used to slam the door. The baby reached out for Sam’s knee, pulling himself upright and holding out his arms plaintively. Sam couldn’t pick him up. He was holding his book in one hand and the other was on a knife. Castiel wrapped himself around Sam’s leg stubbornly.

That stopped the other man in his tracks. He stood there at the edge of the wooden destruction, and stared at them suspiciously. “I found the Impala,” Rufus said quietly, his voice tight. “Almost didn’t recognize it.”

_(Huh. Sam’s surprised that he found it. And that he had recognized it. Because yeah, Sam had hid it behind two larger trucks and a decrepit van after his last meltdown two months ago. That was after he’d taken a crow bar to it.)_

Sam set the book aside carefully, fingering the knife concealed under the desk top. “I had a bad day.”

“Uh-huh,” Rufus said under his breath, and crouched to Castiel’s level. If he reached out six inches, he could touch the toddler and Sam would kill him as promised. But Rufus didn’t try. He just stared at the baby like Castiel held all the answers in his little fuzzy head. For all the hunters knew, maybe he did. “And where were you when your Daddy had a hard day?”

Sam shifted uncomfortably in the seat. He didn’t like the use of that name. It wasn’t his, but it’s what he basically insisted to Rufus was truth so he let it slide.

“Where do you think?” Sam bit off. “Safely sleeping on the porch.”

Rufus pretended that Sam hadn’t spoken. “I’d feel better if I could look you over, little guy. How about it? Just for my peace of mind.”

Sam stared at Rufus. Even though he knew Rufus suspected his emotional state, even though he knew that the hunter suspected he was a danger to Castiel . . . it didn’t prepare him for the verbal accusation.

_(Rufus doesn’t trust Sam. He knows about the mirrors. He knows about the car. The alcohol. Lucifer. Screaming, Crying. Hating. Dying. He’s waiting for an excuse to kill Sam and take Castiel. He really thinks Sam could hurt that innocent baby . . . and what if he’s right?)_

Rufus wasn’t right. Sam could prove it. “Ca—” Sam flushed. Rufus let the slip go. “Little one,” Sam corrected, “come here.”

With a sound caught between a laugh and a cry, Castiel reached to be picked up once more, and promptly clung to Sam’s neck. It made it hard to undress the toddler. Sam hugged him back just as tightly, and then stripped him down to his diaper.

“You can see there’s not a mark on him,” Sam surprised himself with how detached and clinical his voice sounded, as he tugged free of Castiel’s grip to turn the baby around. _(Here was Sam. There were his emotions. And there’s the wall between them for the first time in his life—the bloody moral vacuum that his professors at Stanford always tried to encourage.)_ Sam snagged a baby blanket from the arm of the couch and swaddled Castiel in it before tucking the baby under his chin. “And if I have it my way, there **never** will.”

_(That’s why he didn’t run Rufus off. That’s why he let the old man stay. The day he became a danger to Castiel, the hunter was welcome to shoot him. The Voice didn’t know what to make of that.)_

“So long as we have an understanding, boy.” Rufus backed away, kicking a couple blocks aside. “Didn’t know he had any toys,” the other man commented, frowning at the blocks.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Used to be mine . . . I think. Bobby never threw a thing away in his life, and I’m not completely inept.”

“Well if the job you did on the Impala is your idea of success, then that explains why you suck so much as a mechanic.”

Sam looked away, flushing hotly. “I wasn’t trying to fix it. I was trying to demolish it.”

“Whatever for?”

“It was a really bad day,” Sam shrugged. Then he smiled at something he didn’t really find funny. “And Dean once said that he’d haunt my ass if I let anything happen to that car.”

“Pair of idiots, the both of you,” Rufus grumbled under his breath. “Drove Bobby up the wall, and now I’m stuck with you.”

“There’s the door,” Sam tossed out the challenge flippantly.

Rufus didn’t laugh, and he sure didn’t leave. “I’m staying, boy.”

Sam shifted awkwardly, and stood, openly taking the knife from its hiding spot to tuck into the back of his jeans. “I’m going to bath him as long as he’s ready for one. Then we’ll turn in early; I’m not in the mood to work tonight.” Then Sam fled.

* * *

Rufus didn’t let the Impala go that easily. He dragged Sam out to the Impala every night for a week, informing the youngest Winchester that if he’s stupid enough to break it, then he’s going to have to be smart enough to fix it.

It sounded so much like something Bobby would have said that Sam actually obeyed after the initial tantrum and the blows exchanged. Castiel had been fussy that night; neither of them slept and Castiel kept patting Sam’s black eye in distress until the bruising finally began fading after a few days.

Rufus never made a move to touch Castiel even after the day in the Study, but all of a sudden the older hunter never shut up. He kept a running commentary on everything he did which was addressed to a wide-eyed toddler. Castiel was probably permanently stunned by the concept that two people could talk to him instead of just one _(and only on occasion)_.

Rufus didn’t even make an attempt to take the boy the night the Impala was declared driving-worthy or Sam might have had some expectations for how it would end. Rufus just produced a car seat from his truck and fitted it into the backseat of the Impala.

_(Dean would have been rolling in his grave.)_

“Picked it up at a yard sale,” the older hunter commented. “Thought you might like to take the kid with you, and I saw you didn’t have one.”

_(Sam had made the trip from Detroit to Singer Salvage with the baby tucked inside his jacket. He hadn’t stopped once. Castiel drank cold formula and Sam smelled like baby urine for the better part of the week following. Fourteen months later, and Castiel hadn’t been in a car since.)_

Castiel was not impressed with the restraints, and made his opinion known with the fussy face Sam had hoped was left behind along with the end of the world and the month of colic. When that didn’t work, Castiel moved on to almost crying, and Sam was just about to turn around in the driver’s seat to free the toddler when Rufus let out a startled shout in sync with a shotgun blast.

Sam was out of the car and leapt over the incapacitated hunter in a single bound. _(Rage and fear and hate were almost as good as demon blood for psyching him up to make a kill. The only coherent thought Sam even still had was that Castiel was **too far** away, and that from now on, Sam was never going to put the kid down. Forget the driving laws.)_ He appraised the shot to Rufus’ knee on the move, and zeroed in on the shooter.

He almost didn’t even register Chuck’s terrified face as he zeroed in on the smaller man.

“It’s n-not what it looks like, Sam!” the writer shrieked. “He was going to kill you!” He let out an even higher-pitched scream when Sam ripped the shotgun out of his hands and slammed it back into the writer’s temple. The man dropped like a load of bricks.

Then Sam wheeled around, and kicked the knife out of Rufus’ hand, bringing the shotgun up to rest point blank against Rufus’ forehead. _(He was going to kill Sam and drive off with Castiel, and Sam hadn’t even done anything. Rufus just wanted to do away with Sam the second he let go of Castiel long enough, and Chuck could have **killed** Castiel. What was the stupid naïve little man **thinking** , carrying a shotgun he didn’t know how to use?)_ Sam tensed in preparation.

“Now Sammy, don’t go doing something you’ll regret,” a voice lectured from the edge of the property. Gabriel, the **archangel** , was leaning casually in mid-air, rebuffed by the wards. Sam’s night was now complete.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title borrowed from Shakespeare's "Macbeth."

Castiel was having a conniption fit in the car, and Sam was surrounded on all sides by men that he didn’t _(couldn’t)_ trust. Men that he couldn’t see as anything but threats to be put down.

_(Well, Chuck probably wasn’t a threat. He didn’t have the guts to kill anyone let alone hurt a little kid. Of course, when Sam had first met him, Chuck didn’t have enough nerve to pick up a real gun. People change fast and better to waste a bullet now than to not have one later.)_

Sam shook uncertainly, and Castiel’s cries were not helping. “Castiel,” Sam snapped.

The toddler quieted instantly, and Sam could feel the weight of Castiel’s blue gaze on his back, but he could not meet it. Sam could not look away from the resigned, but unashamed countenance of Rufus. Castiel made another distressed sound.

“Castiel you’re a fallen angel, and an overly-intelligent fifteen month old—deliberately not speaking aside—Either figure out the buckles or give me a minute.”

“Don’t you take this out on him,” Rufus whispered. “Don’t you dare.”

“I would never hurt that kid,” Sam glared down at the older hunter. “But I’m going to beat the heck out of you and enjoy it.”

Chuck groaned behind him, and Sam swung his gun around to knock out the hunter, before aiming it at Chuck.

“Tie him up.”

“M’head hurts,” the prophet whined.

Sam unloaded it a few feet from Chuck, sending the writer scrambling. The archangel snapped rope into existence and tossed it across the wards to the former-prophet.

Sam bypassed them, and freed Castiel. He squeezed back a fraction of Castiel’s death grip in relief. Giving it a moment’s thought, Sam sank to the ground, settling back against the Impala where he could keep an eye on all of the invaders.

Chuck worried ineffectively at the ropes, but it kept him occupied and Rufus would be unconscious long after Sam had the chance to drag Rufus back and chain him up in the dog’s place.

“You’re being awfully quiet, Gabriel,” Sam commented suspiciously. “It’s out of character.”

The archangel waved dismissively. “You’re busy.”

“Don’t make me stake you again,” Sam growled, rubbing Castiel’s small back to dispel the anxious hiccups. “I’m not a hunter anymore.”

“Noticed that actually. I gotta say . . . hibernating for a year? One of the more extreme reactions to the world **not ending**.”

Sam made a rude gesture to the side where Castiel couldn’t see it. On principle. _(Which one?)_ Gabriel laughed.

Chuck approached nervously, shifting from foot to foot. “So . . . uh . . . I did my best, but y’know I was only a Boy Scout for like two weeks, and Rufus is a really **really** good hunter, and . . .”

“Chuck. Sit down. Shut up.”

The prophet dropped straight to the ground without further prompting, and wrapped his arms around his knees tightly. The rocking back and forth had to be subconscious. Sam felt bad for him. Honestly. But he wasn’t one to pull punches anymore.

“Chuck, if you ever shoot a gun in the same **state** as Castiel again, I will rip out your teeth one-at-a-time, and make you a **tiara**.”

Chuck let out an uneasy moan, and Gabriel whistled in appreciation.

“Can it,” Sam snapped. “What are you doing here?”

Gabriel tensed. “Sam, why don’t you let me in, and we’ll discuss this someplace warm . . . preferably over dessert,” the archangel bargained.

“No.”

“Sam,” Chuck whispered. “This is important. I had a vision of Rufus trying to kill you, but **never saw the outcome**.”

“So that’s why you came bumbling to the rescue . . .”

“No, Sam,” Chuck shook his head, eyes wide and haunted. “This . . . tonight . . . it wasn’t part of my vision. This is bigger. Heaven-sized bigger . . .”

Castiel protested when Sam gripped him too tight, and Sam let the toddler go absently. _(Heaven wants him dead again. Heaven wants him dead, and Castiel is a fallen angel. A completely helpless fallen angel. A baby. For all intents and purposes, Sam’s baby, and now Heaven wants Sam dead. He kind of doubts their intentions for Castiel are any better. But hey, on the plus side, the littlest archangel can’t get through the wards. Too bad he’s nicest of the lot. He’s only killed Dean a couple hundred times and turned Sam into the Impala. That’s downright generous really.)_ Sam rested the back of his head against the car and closed his eyes.

“Not to rush you or anything, Sammy-boy, but I’m not exactly supposed to be down here,” Gabriel grimaced.

“Get out.”

There was a long moment of silence, and when Gabriel spoke again, his voice was cold. “Excuse me?”

“Go home, Gabriel.”

“I came here to **help** you.”

“You’re a coward. You’ve always been a coward, and when we asked for help, you turned us down. You’re not here out of the goodness of your heart. You’re here because you need me. I don’t know what you’ve done, Gabriel, and I don’t care. I’ve lost Dean. I won’t lose Castiel. He’s all I’ve got left.” Sam grinned a little maniacally. “And it’s still more than you’ve got.”

With a snap of his fingers, the archangel disappeared from beyond the wards.

“Oh, **shi-it** ,” Chuck moaned, burying his face in his arms. Sam thought that seemed a remarkably reasonable coping method for tonight.

_(He is dimly aware of Castiel hovering at his side without actually touching, and the unforgiving frame of the Impala behind him. For a moment, it’s like the old days when Dean would emerge from the motel-of-the-week just as soon as Sam opens his eyes.)_

He felt Castiel take an inquisitive step away from him, and the instinctive panic yanked Sam from his thoughts. Castiel paused and looked back at him, standing halfway between Sam and Chuck.

The writer noticed this as well and held out his hand like the baby is an animal to be coaxed. Chuck’s general miserable expression and unashamed terror have taken a momentary backseat to wonder. Sam reached out and pulled Castiel back into his arms tightly. “ **Don’t** touch him.”

Chuck flinched. “Yeah, man. No touching. Got it.”

Castiel grumbled against Sam’s chest, before squirming to get comfortable. The toddler pushed one small hand against Sam’s heart, laid his head over it, and promptly fell asleep.

“Fat load of help you are,” Sam muttered into the child’s hair. _(Stupid stupid child who didn’t have the good sense to be scared. Stupid angel who shouldn’t sleep so soundly in the arms of Lucifer’s vessel especially after tonight.)_ “Ridiculous.” He maneuvered to his feet, carefully, using the shotgun for leverage. He paused when he got to his feet. “Why aren’t you leaving, Chuck?” He glared for good measure. Unfortunately, he could see Chuck automatically catalogue it as Bitchface #12: Out of Control and Faking Everything.

 _(Not so much prophet as mystical stalker, these days)_ warred with _(Only Dean’s ever done that. Only Dean’s supposed to do that)._ Sam upgraded the glare to a full-on scowl, and considered how easy it would be to snap Chuck like a twig. That got the desired results as new data hit the prophet like an anvil. Chuck scrambled upright faster than Wile E. Coyote. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Chuck,” Sam added generously.

“I . . . well, it’s like this . . . Gabriel was kind of my ride.”

“There’s a bed-and-breakfast in town.”

“I don’t have any money,” Chuck admitted reluctantly.

“Pick a rusted-out vehicle. Any vehicle,” Sam gestured grandly at the pile of wrecked cars around them.

“Outside?” Chuck quivered. “At night?”

“With the warding on this place?” Sam snorted. “You’ve never been safer.”

“It’s September! It’ll get cold!”

“I’d pick something without broken windows then,” Sam shrugged, and hefted Castiel into a better position so that he can manage the shotgun too.

“Are you seriously going to leave me out here?” Chuck asked plaintively. “Cause that’s just not cool, man. I thought you were the nice-to-people brother. That’s how I freakin’ **write** you.”

Sam turned around, shotgun raised. “I am not a character, Chuck. I’m only human. And no one else is entering that house until Castiel’s old enough to read Latin and carry a sawed-off.”

Sam shifted Castiel, and carried him inside.

* * *

Sam finally found Chuck in the back of a decrepit station wagon, curled around a spare tire. He hefted his bucket of water and drenched the prophet, sending Chuck sputtering upright. No one’s short enough to miss a station wagon roof, and Chuck re-curled, groaning and moaning miserably. Sam tossed him the towel and hefted Castiel.

“Rise and shine, Chuck.”

The unintelligible response was uttered through the towel, and Sam ignored it.

“Breakfast is in the bed of the Chevy,” Sam called over his shoulder, and climbed into said-truck bed. Stale jelly doughnuts and OJ would have to do, unless Chuck could be talked into making a grocery run in town.

Sam sprawled on his back, staring up at the clouds. Castiel pushed off of him and put both hands into a jelly doughnut. Castiel looked back at Sam with a little smirk and licked the strawberry jelly off one fist, while gripping the folds of Sam’s t-shirt with the other.

Sam sighed at the sticky sharing. “You did that on purpose.”

Castiel chuckled and held out half of his massacred doughnut. It was mostly doughnut now, the filling squeezed out down the front of them both.

“Yeah, it’s pretty good, man,” and Sam took a bite out of the proffered doughnut. This had the effect of smearing the jelly across his face as Castiel laughed at the silliness of feeding Sam instead of the other way around.

The doughnut was gone, and Castiel was sprawled across Sam’s chest by the time Chuck dragged himself into the truck bed. The prophet had to use a convenient concrete block for a step, the moving of which seemed to take Herculean effort. Sam and Castiel didn’t move as Chuck stood above them.

“Did you slay the jelly monster or was it the other way around?” Chuck asked with a small smirk. Sam reached out blindly and pegged the man with another doughnut.

Chuck made a wounded noise, and Castiel shifted upward. Sam opened his eyes to see Castiel reaching out for the prophet trying to wipe jelly off his superhero t-shirt. Chuck glanced back, and smiled a little for Castiel, reaching towards the toddler.

Sam didn’t make a sound, and perhaps that’s what prompted the prophet’s sudden realization, because Chuck jerked backward and nearly fell out of the truck. Backed into the corner, Chuck pointed a shaky finger. “Sneaky angel-baby,” he croaked. “Always trying to get me killed—first with Lillith and then the archangel . . . and now . . . don’t give me that look, Castiel. It won’t work.”

Castiel smiled.

Sam chuckled. “You honestly think that Castiel is trying to do you in?”

“If it’d help a Winchester, that angel would serve me up on a barbeque,” Chuck grimaced. “His whole I-don’t-understand-humans vibe . . . is . . . is a . . . a . . . _lie_! He’s far too good at emotional manipulation for that.” Chuck returned to lamenting his stained t-shirt.

Sam smiled lazily. “You do realize that you are crediting a baby with both several millennia of angelic wisdom and an evil intent.”

“Yeah, well . . . I haven’t had coffee yet.”

“Dude,” Sam cracked one eye open again. “If you think I’m giving you coffee, you’re crazier than the rest of us.”

“I happen to drink six cups a day to balance out the alcohol,” Chuck argued.

“No wonder you’re jittery,” Sam remarked, tucking Castiel’s head back into his shoulder. Chuck stared at him. “What?”

“You’re a lot more laid back today,” Chuck explained warily.

Sam shrugged. “Been a good morning.”

“Speak for yourself,” Chuck sighed, poking at the stain on his shirt again. “I woke up soaking wet in a wrecked car, and this was my favorite shirt.”

Sam refused to feel guilty. Not today. Today was a good day. Instead, he held out the cheap cardboard box. “Doughnut?”

“Yeah.”

* * *

“So, I figure the hospitality won’t last,” Chuck spoke up again half an hour later when he had been fed, and Castiel was sleeping in Sam’s lap.

“I’ve got a deal for you.”

“I’ve been writing the Winchester Gospel long enough to know that deals are bad news,” Chuck answered suspiciously.

“Not that kind of deal.” Sam glanced down at Castiel. “Every useful vision you have, I’ll feed you. This,” and Sam waved at the empty box of doughnuts and spilled orange juice, “is your only freebie.”

Chuck bit his lip. “I can’t exactly control them, Sam.”

“Consider it motivation to learn.”

“Can I sleep in the house?” Chuck asked hopefully.

“No,” and Sam would not renegotiate on this. _(No one ever goes in that house again who doesn’t bear the last name Winchester.)_ “This is hopefully only temporary. Every morning, you go outside the wards and yell for Gabriel for fifteen minutes, and you can keep sleeping in the station wagon until he picks you up.” _(Which had better be soon. Sam’s not above taking advantage of prophetic visions while Chuck was trapped here, but the sooner it was just him and Castiel, the happier Sam would be.)_

“What if he doesn’t come?” Chuck asked nervously.

“You’re a prophet, and you’re not supposed to be here. I’m pretty sure that Gabriel can’t have your absence discovered,” Sam delivered bluntly. “He’ll come.”

Chuck nodded absently, fussing with the stain on his shirt again. _(It’s just a freaking t-shirt. Sam can’t believe he’s so worked up over a t-shirt.)_

Sam shifted. “I’m going to put him down, and then I’ll meet you in back of the shed.”

“For what?”

“Interrogating Rufus.” _(Sam did not get an unusual amount of enjoyment out of the prophet going pale. He did however fully intend to hammer home the exact consequences of endangering Castiel. Rufus was actually convenient for this purpose.)_

Castiel didn’t stir during the transition from Sam’s arms to the cot in the panic room, and Sam was able to arm himself and make it upstairs without the toddler in tow. Chuck was waiting nervously about halfway between the house and the shed. Sam cuffed him upside the back of the head as he strode past the prophet. _(Since when do you behave so much like Dean?)_ Sam rarely answered the voice in his head, but this merited a moment of irony. _(About to take another leaf out of big brother’s book—and step it up a notch like the failure you are?)_

“Yep.”

“Huh?”

“Shut up, Chuck.”

* * *

To Sam’s frustration, he didn’t have the nerve to shoot Rufus in cold blood. _(Drain an innocent nurse traumatized by demon possession, sure. Put a bullet in the brainpan of a hardened hunter who had tried to kill him and would try again in order to steal Castiel, no. Hopeless.)_ He had a quivering Chuck dump the guy’s truck and dog outside the wards, and shoved the bruised and bloodied hunter after them.

When he finally returned to the panic room, Castiel had only spared him a glance from where the baby sat under the cot playing with his blocks. The former angel wouldn’t even consent to being held for the rest of the day, and Sam’s nerves were fraying dangerously by eleven. If Castiel hadn’t yawned and held out his arms in wordless demand, Sam didn’t want to think about what he’d do under the relentless torture of his own mind.

_(You’ve done bad things, Sam. Horrible things . . . what have you done to deserve the trust of something as pure as Castiel? . . . He knows what you’ve done. They all know.)_

Castiel slept with Sam as he had every night of his mortal existence. And in the morning, Castiel seemed to have forgotten last night’s fit of pique. He pulled on Sam until he was settled in one arm for breakfast, and proceeded to share the maple syrup as liberally as he had the jelly doughnuts of the day before. Not for the first time, Sam wondered about brain damage.

_(How much do you think he remembers? From day to day, I mean. He knows things he shouldn’t; you saw how he reacted to Rufus. So why doesn’t he know about you?)_

Castiel was fourteen months old, and had been horribly premature. His first few hours of existence were in the company of Lucifer, and the following two days were spent in a car. _(And it’s not like you’re any kind of decent parent.)_ Throw in the whole falling trauma, and it was probably expected for a kid like Castiel to refuse to talk and cling like a leech. _(He clings? You were half gone when he turned away from you.)_ If he could reach Sam from the afterlife, Dean would wring his neck for letting this happen to their guardian angel. For letting this happen to **Cas**.

Sam doesn’t care what Dean thinks. Dean isn’t here. He doesn’t get a say.

* * *

Life at Singer Salvage is prone to sudden inexplicable changes that rock the residents’ respective worlds. The countering weight that balances out those changes is that eventually life at Singer Salvage settles into a routine regardless.

It’s the way of the place.

Every day, Sam wakes up and does what little he can for the cars entrusted to their care. The customers slowly dwindle off as they realize that Rufus is no longer at the Salvage Yard, but Sam’s been saving every penny the Yard brings in, having lived off of Rufus’ twisted charity for the duration of the older hunter’s stay. He’s got another stockpile to get them through a month or two. Castiel stays in the office with his toys and blankets while Chuck keeps a quiet and distant watch. Sam checks every fifteen minutes just to be sure.

Every night at nine PM, Chuck walks out beyond the yard and shouts for Gabriel. Originally, this was sheepish half-raised requests and some incomprehensible babble, but three weeks into the arrangement, Chuck threw himself on the ground and yelled up at the sky his entire repressed, but long-suffering trauma. This ranged from insults to specific angels themselves (particularly Gabriel), to Sam’s total lack of compassion, to a writer’s indignity at the “completely mary-sue-ish behavior” that the prophet has to record.

Sam pretends not to notice the change or the ensuing-peace that follows as Chuck contentedly complains or whines for his fifteen minute break outside the wards in relative quiet. Chuck had informed him that just yelling at the angels went a long way as far as relaxation techniques, “and it’s a lot cheaper than therapy.”

Sure, the angels could smite Chuck, but the prophet has a get-out-of-death-free card. Sam just reassures the Sherriff from the porch that the crazy man is staying with him and unlikely to be dangerous.

* * *

Castiel would not be appeased the morning they woke up to the first two inches of snow on the ground. He pushed and shoved at Sam until the man caved and wrapped them both up for a trip outside. Castiel boldly led the way through the snow-covered yard to the familiar station wagon.

_(Getting independent, isn’t he?)_

The little angel stopped just outside the hatch and yanked hard on Sam’s jeans. Sam sighed heavily, and knocked on the window. The blankets squirmed, and eventually a blurry-eyed Chuck fought his way free of them to peer out the window.

“Get out, Chuck,” Sam ordered. While that process was enacted, Castiel flung himself down flat on his back in the snow. The toddler sat up again and lifted a handful of snow up to his face with a look of wonder on his face. Sam’s heart clenched at the beatific expression of innocence, and promptly squashed it.

“C’mon, Cas. You’ve seen snow before,” Sam scolded mildly, pushing the toddler back flat again. “Go on, wave your arms and legs.”

Castiel tilted his head to the side and tentatively swept one arm up and down, before sitting up to inspect his work.

“Are you actually trying to teach a genuine angel of the Lord how to make a snow angel?” came a whiny voice as Chuck leaned out of the station wagon. “And doing that bad a job of it?”

Sam rolled his eyes, and yes, he did take his eyes off the prophet and therefore totally deserved the snowball that impacted with the side of his face. Castiel let out a delighted peal of laughter unlike anything else that Sam had heard from the former-angel before.

It was loud for one thing. Castiel was normally a pretty quiet little guy. Even the fussing was only on half-volume. Sam instantly felt envy aimed heavily at Chuck for winning this ground-breaking step from Castiel instead of Sam.

_(What do you ever give him to laugh about? What makes you think that he’ll ever want to speak to you? He’s laughing for the prophet, he speaks without speaking to his brothers, and the therapist that this kid will need someday will get more words than you ever will.)_

Sam shoved it down through sheer force of will. The Yard was quiet now. Castiel and Chuck both watched Sam in nervous silence. Sam’s eyes narrowed, and he ducked low.

It was too easy. Chuck simply stood staring slack-jawed as Sam lobbed the snowball that exploded upon impact with the prophet’s face. Chuck screamed like a little girl. Castiel squealed, ruining his half-angel as Castiel struggled upright and tackled Sam at the knees.

Sam snatched the toddler and threw him over his shoulder, reaching for another handful of snow off the nearest car. Chuck turned tail and fled out through the Yard.

_(That just won’t do.)_

Sam gave pursuit with Castiel shrieking his enjoyment of the chase directly into Sam’s left ear.

Now the prophet was using a convenient crow bar to protect himself from the snowballs as he continued steadily backwards. Sam’s a little surprised that Chuck didn’t go into baseball with a swing like that. The explosions of white powder charmed Castiel who giggled at the far-reaching rain of snow. Sam slapped together another hasty concoction of snow, and Chuck belted it so hard that the ball exploded on impact, covering the smaller man with snow.

Chuck blinked, and then seemed to take in his surroundings. “A-ha!” the prophet shouted, and slid across the line of the wards with a Castiel-worthy smirk. “I’m safe now!”

Sam enjoyed smacking the cocky prophet with a perfectly formed snowball. Chuck fell back into a snowdrift with a howl.

_(Not so cocky now, is he?)_

“What part of projectile weapon do you not get, Chuck?” Sam snorted, and took a step towards the bewildered prophet while pushing Castiel behind him. “Stay there, Castiel.” He reached the warding. “And I’m not afraid of crossing the wards either.”

Chuck blinked up at him.

Sam’s foot hovered over the line.

_(We could just take him down without half-trying, you know. It’d be so easy, and he doesn’t think that you’ll take this last step. He’s not even trying to back away from us.)_

We. Us.

Sam stepped back away from the warding. “It’s just smarter not to. Get back in here. There’s coffee on back at the house.”

Chuck shook himself off, beating away the snow. “The house?”

Sam hefted the toddler back into his arms, and started back for the house. “Don’t make me change my mind. Touch Castiel, and you’ll make an attractive colander when I’m done with you.”

“Duly noted,” Chuck observed quietly.


End file.
